Gemotions

Michael scrubbed at the grease staining his hands, the metallic tang of motor oil clinging to his nostrils. He’d just finished replacing the carburetor on his vintage Mustang, a project he'd been anticipating all week. Then, as if on cue, there was a knock at the garage door. It was Mr. Henderson, his face crinkled with an eagerness that felt invasive. “Say, Michael," Henderson began, holding a shovel, "I was wondering if you’d be averse to me putting in a little garden plot on your side of the property line. Sun's just perfect there."

Michael’s fingers tightened on the wrench he was holding. The air inside the garage, already thick with fumes, seemed to shrink. He wanted to scream, to grab the shovel and bury it deep in the earth. Instead, he just mumbled something about needing to consult his wife.

He leaned back against the car, the metal cold against his back, his muscles taut. He knew what she would say. She would want the garden. Another project he wouldn't be able to do. The gears in his head whirred in protest.